Imprinted On My Skin
by gmoney480
Summary: Day 1: Joaniarty week Creative Choice: Soulmate Tattoo In which the first words your soulmate ever says to you are imprinted into your skin.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm making the car confrontation their first meeting in this, and it is also my first fic so bear with me please! Constructive criticism is great, but flames are not appreciated. Enjoy!

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Soulmate marks are an old concept, the earliest known incident recorded in Ancient Egypt. No one knows exactly why or how, but the first words of your soulmate are imprinted onto your skin once you both exist in this world, typically on the forearm. Although it is possible to find love elsewhere, it is widely accepted that your soulmate is your best chance at happiness.

Each civilization has some sort of artistic contribution to the fantastic legend that was the soulmarks. The Egyptians thought of them as a gift from their gods for their service, and much like their ideas about the Sun, the words would keep appearing in exchange for continued loyalty and sacrifices. They thought that there was no greater tragedy to live a life bereft of your soulmate, and would do anything to appease their gods.

Modern day stories are filled with movies and novels focusing on soulmate marks, often silly things with over the top romances that promise a happily ever after if all they could do is find each other.

The Greek philosopher Plato theorized that originally humans had four arms, four legs and four eyes, along with two noses two mouths and two eyes. But the power of humans threatened Zeus, and in fear he split each human into two, cursing them to wander alone to the end of their days, in search of their other half. There are legends of the Titan Prometheus defying Zeus and bringing fire and words to humans in an attempt to make them better. The fire was to help them survive but the marks on their skin was to help them _live_.

The only problem was that the words are not a guarantee. They are a gamble, a chance, a small flickering flame of hope for happiness that could easily be extinguished if you aren't careful. Just because words on your skin suggest that this person is the best to make you happy doesn't mean that they _will_. People still have choices, and the ability to choose is _everything_, making success that much sweeter, but failure that much more painful.

Joan was eight when her words appeared. The alarm clock gave off a soft blue light, the numbers indicating that it was 2 o'clock, the soft light and the distant noises of car engines spilling into the room, a consequence of living in New York City. There was a burning sensation spreading throughout her skin on her upper torso and it was getting worse. She hugged the pillow to her chest and bit down on her fist because she's not a baby she's _eight_ and eight year olds can't cry anymore and she can't cry because she'll wake up Oren but it _hurts _and all she wants is it to stop hurting and _it won't stop please please please_-

As abruptly as the pain started it ends. There's a metallic taste in her mouth and a ringing in her ears, but her entire body sinks into the mattress and her breathing starts to even out. Joan lies still for a moment, but then takes a deep breath and pushes herself out of bed. Taking care to make sure that none of the wooden floor boards start to squeak, she quickly tip toes to the bathroom, careful not to wake her new stepfather.

She turns on the bathroom lights and closes the door, eyes dilating and she blinks a few times. She climbs up onto the step ladder in front of the mirror and turns on the faucet, first washing away the small trickle of blood on her knuckles, leaving behind only an imprint of two baby teeth, and then splashes water onto her flushed cheeks.

She takes off her nightgown, brows furrowed, head slightly tilted. Starting from her collarbone neat, beautifully crafted words (she can hear her mother humming in approval. Joan tries but no matter how long she practices her writing always looks like chicken scratch) end around mid-torso. Joan is reminded of the calligraphy classes Mom always makes her take, but these possess an artistic quality that Joan has never been able to produce (maybe they will take calligraphy with her and she will meet him there).

Of course Joan knows about soulmate marks. Doesn't everyone? Her parents had each other's mark, and Oren's had appeared when he was about two (she was playing with him in the sandbox, but she can't ever remember him being in pain. All she could remember is Dad laughing and promising to buy them ice cream). Most of her friends also had them. But unlike them, she stopped daydreaming about what her future soulmate would be like after her father left when she was six. Joan knows that the words are not the end all be all that Disney sometimes sets out to portray, and just because there is one potentially perfect fit doesn't mean that you will be free from tragedy (but all of this reasoning doesn't prevent the small fluttering in her chest from occurring).

But these marks were…odd. For one, most people's marks were on their arms, and they were always black. These words were the same as the color that was on her knuckles just a few moments ago (later in her first anatomy class Joan would have trouble memorizing all the different veins and arteries in the human body, until she figured out that the words were placed along the lines of her major arteries), and very rarely are people's first words to a random stranger this _long_ (maybe they're a nervous sort of person and like to ramble?). Not to mention that she didn't understand quite a few of the words used, and resolved to look them up in the Webster dictionary.

Joan yawned, put her nightgown back on, and decided that she should just go back to bed and deal with it in the morning. She burrowed under her covers, feeling her eyes droop shut before her head even reached the pillow. Her last thought before unconsciousness took her was _What kind of name is Sherlock?_

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A/N Ok, the Egypt thing was completely made up but the part about Plato's theory of soulmates was something that was thought at the time. Thank you for reading, hopefully you like it!


	2. Famous Last Words

When Joan met Sherlock for the first time, bare-chested and clad only in Jeans, she had wondered where his mark could possibly be. He had several tattoos all along his arms and torso, but they were all of images, not a word or letter in sight. While it was possible for the mark to be located elsewhere (Joan herself was living proof of that) it was also very rare, and neither Joan nor Sherlock ever brought up the topic.

After they became partners, however, she could no longer contain her curiosity and decided to broach the topic. If Sherlock made any attempts to avoid the conversation, she would drop it and that would be that.

"I know it may be difficult to talk about, but I've always wondered about your tattoos" Joan tentatively asked, purposefully vague.

Sherlock looks almost surprised, as if he had been expecting the question a long time ago and was astonished at how long Joan was able to make herself wait to ask that question. "Gone," Sherlock swiftly replied. He turns his back to her, correctly deducing that she wasn't talking about his hobby and decides to contend with Joan's actual question. He starts to organize his collection of locks that are scattered throughout the room. This time he hangs them according to city of origin. Sherlock puts Clyde on the table, using him as a timer. The challenge is to hang all of the locks before Clyde makes it to the lettuce that is a quarter up the table.

"Faded away when I was about 11." He continued. "It was the reason why I fell of that fence in the first place, not because I did not know my limitations."

Observing Joan's look of bafflement, he gives a tight lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes, "Yes I know Alistair told you the story, of how when I was a boy I broke my arm from falling off a great height." He continued to organize the locks, but Joan sees him incorrectly group a lock from France with the locks from China.

He pauses in his work, then goes on to say, "I wrapped up the arm myself because I did not need the pitying looks of strangers, acting as if I had just suffered a great loss because of a person that I have never met nor will ever know," Sherlock adds in a hollow voice, shoulders stiff and hunched over like he was trying to make himself smaller, his knuckles gripping a lock so tightly that his knuckles were white, still refusing to turn around.

Joan took a step forward a places a slim hand on his shoulder, knowing that a simple 'I'm sorry' was not sufficient or what Sherlock would want to hear, and would probably end the conversation.

"Know that while they aren't your only chance at happiness, I wish there was one more person in this world that would know and understand you" Joan states, trying to relay to Sherlock her support. He nods his thanks, his shoulders still stiff but less so and his hands start to unclench the lock and were slowly gaining back color.

She didn't try to turn him around because she knows exactly what his expression would be. After years of working as a doctor she knows that expression by heart. When a person's soulmate dies, they couldn't help but feel grief, either at the loss of love or even at the idea of love. Even soulmates who didn't get along had that exact same expression on their face and were not exempt from the pain, because even if that person couldn't be their happily ever after they still have hope that their partner could become one of their greatest friends (Joan thinks that when she is old and can barely remember her own name this will be the one thing she remembers with perfect clarity).

Joan still wakes up to the shrieks of anguish people make once their marks disappear permanently, still dreams about the looks of shock and utter despair she's received whenever she had to tell the deceased's loved ones that they will never have another conversation, remembers arguments and screams because the mark is still there they can't be dead _the mark is still there she's lying_ (it always takes a few hours for marks to disappear. As morbid as it might sound, Joan is glad because it gives her hope for the future because it means that one day maybe they will have a few more hours to save these patients, that there is more that can be done to save a person's life).

The words do not represent a pre-written destiny. They represent choice, and once the choice disappears so do they. It would almost be comforting, knowing that there is still such a thing as free will, if it wasn't so damn tragic.

They stay like that for a few more moments, and then Joan takes her hand off of his shoulder. Sherlock decides to surprise her, and continues the conversation "It was also one of the reasons that originally drew me to her. Irene," he added after seeing her look of confusion in a wry and wistful, almost bitter voice. "She was like me; she didn't have a soulmark on her. I knew that becoming involved with her would not be a fruitless endeavor for she would not leave me for someone that she just met. People like to think that they wouldn't leave someone they are in a committed partnership with for someone they had known for only a heartbeat, but human beings are greedy and fickle creatures. All they naively see is opportunity for something better, never mind that this particular plan of action always involves leaving something else behind."

Deciding to let that go for another day, Joan glances at the living room table. By now Clyde is almost halfway through his share of lettuce and is munching away happily.

Sherlock finally turns around, and gives her a look that can be described as almost hesitant. Joan is surprised; Sherlock rarely has ever given confirmation that he understands the meaning of the word tact. (Good. Joan thinks. He's finally learning boundaries. Maybe it'll stick, if I'm lucky, and he'll let me sleep.). "I've noticed that your words aren't on your forearm, which occurs only at a rate of less than 2% of the usual time. Most soulmates with unmark forearms report that the location of their words usually has some significance to their relationship. I'm not sure how where or what exactly yours are, but so far all I've been able to see are the first two words on your collarbone."

Joan hesitates, but only for a split second. He opened up to her, now it's her turn to share. "I'll tell you, but I can't show them to you since it runs along the length of my torso and stops right around my lungs."

"That's perfectly fine." He responds, bouncing on the balls of his feet, looking like an excited puppy, happy to finally have answers.

Joan tells him the words that are imprinted into her body, gives him his first clear look at the first two words but neglects to mention that they run along the major arteries in her body.

Sherlock tilts his head "An odd color. Like the placement, it is extremely uncommon, but not completely unheard of. As a boy I met an acquaintance of my father's that was a general, and his soulmark was in of all things camouflage colors.

A question continues lingers on Sherlock's face, and Joan correctly deduces what he is about to ask and quickly states, "Our partnership was in no way because of my mark." Seeing Sherlock about to speak Joan swiftly adds, "I took it to mean that if I refused that a possibility was that we would both attend a social function or perhaps at an NA meeting. I'm not going to lie to you, my mark was the reason that I took the case and came here, but it had no influence on why I stayed. You are why I stayed, not for someone who I have never met, and who I may never meet in the first place."

Sherlock nods, a grateful look on his face that soon transforms into thoughtful one. "Although, I've noticed that the wording is very unusual for an American, the language strikes me as something that would be used by an Englishman." Sherlock stops for a second, and then continues, "The words are a bit odd, but there is a very good chance that I will do something extremely rude that will cause you to need rescuing. I know I am not always the easiest person to handle."

Joan smiles, and almost gives an audible sigh of relief. That had always bugged her, but once he puts it that way for the most part her worries are assuaged (although a small nagging voice in the back of her head is still expressing doubts. _But why are they the color of blood?_ It whispers. _Why do they paint a bulls-eye along the lines of your skin?_ She ignores it). Going back to Sherlock's original statement she laughs "Maybe it will be someone you know back in England. Know anyone I'd like?"

"As long as it's not my brother I don't care who they are. He would be completely wrong for you Watson, and he would drag you down into the pit trap that is mediocrity. I perish the thought of such a fate falling upon you," Sherlock shudders, trying to remove the thought from his head with little success.

Joan smiles, worries about her soulmate mark gone (_she didn't tell him where the marks were_ the voice keeps whispering), and attentively listens to the stories Sherlock decides to regale her tales of the woman that he once loved, Irene Adler.

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A/N: Oh Sherlock be careful what you wish for, you might just get it

Wow can't believe I updated this fast, hopefully you guys like what I have so far. Please review, feedback is the only way I really know how well I'm doing since this is my first fic. Hope you enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3: Where You Lead, I Will Follow

A/N: Some people have been asking about this, but up to the car ride the only thing I'm cutting out are two small 5 second scenes where Joan and Jamie interact when Jamie is Irene. I consider the car scene their true first meeting anyway. No Moriarty yet, but there will be soon! Maybe in a chapter or two.

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Chapter 3: Where You Lead, I Will Follow

For months Joan and Sherlock have been trying to find more information about the insidious Moriarty, but with very little luck. It was like exploring in a sea of fog. There was quite a bit of stumbling around, and simultaneously hoping and dreading the idea that someone else might be trapped in there with you. For all you know whatever's out there could be highly dangerous, but at the same time some indiscernible figure in the background is almost always better than being alone. It's always better to be prepared for the enemy, except for this time their main enemy is not the figure in the fog, but the fog itself, obfuscating every scrap of information they come across.

They're reliant upon whispered rumors for information and their contacts aren't much better. They consist of a guy who knows a guy who has a friend and so on, the connection to Moriarty so tenuous and fragile that it might as well be made of a single spider thread.

They often start to give up, let the trail go cold and focus on living their lives and helping others, but then Sherlock will get wind of some wild outlandish rumor and the hunt starts all over again. Each one is more fantastical than the last, but as Sherlock is so fond of saying there are no coincidences, only the illusion of coincidence. Even though each rumor they encounter contains a grain of truth and what they need is a bucket but all they have is enough to maybe fill a thimble. Joan wonders if it would take the rest of their lifetimes to fill that bucket, and she finds that the idea of such a long vendetta worries her.

Sometimes Joan thinks that if Sherlock still had his words he would be able to let go easier, but in a world where happiness is so intrinsically tied up with the idea of marks on your skin it can be hard to find even one permanent partner unaffiliated with the marks, let alone a second. Sherlock saw Irene as his second chance, and he doesn't think he will receive a third.

It helps that Joan has never met hers, but sometimes Sherlock will get this faraway look on his face, like he's surprised that she's still there and doesn't expect to see her the next day. Even if Joan did meet her soulmate, she'd never just toss him aside like that.

A few months ago Joan's brother Oren met his soulmate Gabrielle. Joan's happy for him, she is, but she's also a little jealous. She doesn't expect or even want her soulmate to be her everything, but she does want some sort of relationship with them, romantic or otherwise (she considers herself to be a skeptic, not a cynic) But the absolute worst part is that she just wants to _know_, and the waiting is just driving her crazy, and Oren doesn't have to wait anymore. Sherlock is a constant reminder that if you don't find your soulmate then you may wait forever, and Joan isn't sure if she's capable of that.

In their search, they've pieced together that Moriarty has been active for about the last two decades, give or take a few years depending on who they speak to, that he doesn't have a soulmark (some of the more sensational conspiracy theorists think that he killed his soulmate, or that he was so vile a person that no one is that unfortunate to be cursed with him for a soulmate), that _he has eyes in ears in everywhere man I can't talk to you I have a family to think of _is probably the most frequent response to their questions and stalls their investigation even further, much to Sherlock's displeasure.

Currently Joan is making herself her morning tea, while Sherlock has apparently gone to see an associate of his about something to do with his bees (she's given up all pretense of knowing anything of what he is doing with them. As long as her bedroom ceiling doesn't start dripping honey onto her bed again she is perfectly fine with whatever Sherlock is doing). _The problem_, Joan thinks grimly, stirring fresh honey into the herbal tea, _is that Moriarty is almost baiting them_. She's started to think this recently, but has yet to mention her theory with Sherlock.

Sherlock is tenacious and a force to be reckoned with, but even he can only deduce so much from so little. Whenever he seems to be on the verge of giving up, or at the very least shelving his pursuit for a period time, he'd somehow acquire a new lead and the chase would start all over again. Although she tried to put it out of her mind, this development simultaneously worried and scared Joan. If Moriarty really was baiting them that would mean he had them under constant surveillance. It would mean that Moriarty is just as interested in Sherlock as Sherlock was in Moriarty, for it would only be beneficial for Moriarty to shake Sherlock off his trail. Sherlock is brilliant and has always been the smartest person in the room, but Joan worries that he has finally met his match.

Lately though he's been less involved with the Moriarty Rumors, there's just been too much going on, what with the recent kidnappings and all. _Maybe Moriarty has finally disappeared_ Joan thought optimistically, sipping her tea at the kitchen table, staring at the same newspaper page she's been trying to read for the past 25 minutes. _Maybe he's left (_Joan is aware that she is being wishful; in her darkest nights she remembers Sherlock torturing Sebastian Moran and she will never tell him this but sometimes she tries to imagine Moriarty and for a brief moment all she can see is Sherlock's face).

Right now they're on a new case, and although so far it's been ruled a heart attack Sherlock has expressed his doubts and his desire to investigate further. Joan is just relieved that he isn't doing anything involving Moriarty. _Maybe he's moved on_ (Joan herself isn't entirely sure which 'he' she is referring to) she hopes, her fingers absentmindedly brushing against her collarbone (the beginning of her words), a nervous habit she developed from childhood and was never able to really lose.

Of course, Joan should have known better than to tempt fate.

"Watson!" Sherlock shouts, slamming the door behind him in his rush to get back into the brownstone and inform her of the latest developments. "Good news. I was right, of course, it is a murder. I have just finished interviewing Sebastian Moran, and apparently our victim did not die of natural causes like we thought and there are more nefarious works at play."

Joan took a deep breath and pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, staving off a headache. _Of course, I spoke too soon_.

And that is how Joan finds herself cutting open a dead man's chest in the middle of the night in the precinct's morgue. _How has this become my life _she thought, elbow deep in the victim's heart, looking for any clues as to how this man was murdered, trying to keep her hands steady and face carefully blank (she'd never been able to fully negate her reactions when going through the coronary arteries. She was too reminded of what outlined her own heart, _a bull's-eye _the voice she liked to pretend didn't exist whispered_)_.

Looking at the state of the victim's heart, Joan has to agree with Sherlock. The victim's heart resembles someone who was electrocuted rather than had a run of the mill heart attack. Sherlock confirms this after noting the marks on his hands is more in line with someone who received a high voltage of electric shock.

They return to the brownstone, and after a small amount of digging they discover the victim was on a historical society committee dedicated to preserving old buildings. A few seconds before the victim's estimated time of death they noticed that he submitted an online vote to the historical committee he sits on to knock down the Taggart Speakeasy Museum

There are others who voted to overturn the landmark status, and all of them received contracting work performed by the same man, one Mr. Robert Baumann.

Unfortunately, before they could question the man, an air conditioning unit of all things fell on his head, killing him.

They return home to the brownstone. Joan has a load of laundry she needs to finish and she didn't want to get too far behind on her chores. She's in her room folding her clothes when she hears a loud crash.

She rushes to the window, looking down at the cement and spoke aloud "Why am I not more surprised?" Joan grumbles, looking through the window. There are machine parts scattered all over the sidewalk.

Of course Sherlock would use their air conditioning unit to test if the accident was really a murder. Joan understands that he is curious and that experiments are the best way to sate his curiosity, but using an object as heavy as an _air conditioner_, which has already killed one person today, as his first test subject is one of his best ideas (He's already reverting, already forgetting that his actions have consequences and Joan is starting to _worry_. She's not frightened for him, not yet anyway).

"Watson!" Sherlock announces, barging into her room eager to share his findings. Sherlock quickly deduces that Baumann's accident was anything but, and he goes on to conclude that there is another man behind the dealings of Baumann. He explains Baumann was killed for the side jobs he performed for the historical committee, and that mysterious figure that originally employed him and is now responsible for his death is of course Moriarty.

"So now you're back to believing that Moriarty exists" Joan stated, phrased as if she was asking a question but she knows his answer before he even says it.

"I'm now more and more convinced that we're in pursuit of one of his agents" Sherlock confirmed, fingers twitching and eyes growing all the more wild. "I am certain that this man is like Sebastian Moran, but unlike Moran who is about as subtle as a sledgehammer, this man specializes in murders that do not appear to be murders at all. He is the one who makes things go away rather than bring them to a spotlight."

Joan may not be a sober companion anymore but just because she switched careers doesn't mean she lost the skills that she developed; she can recognize the possible triggers of a relapse when she sees one, and Moriarty is Sherlock's ultimate trigger. Luckily Sherlock has yet to start spiraling to a point that is worrisome, and Joan fully intends on preventing that from happening, at least not while she can do something about it.

"Well what do you propose we do?" Joan asks, continuing to fold.  
"First of all, I need to go buy a new air conditioner and clean up the one spattered over the ground; it's going to get warm soon so we will need a new one. Then our next course of action is quite obvious. We need to plan a murder," Sherlock announces, heading down the stairs and leaving her room just as suddenly as he came.

Joan stops folding for a second, wondering when murder and mayhem became the norm and thinks that this statement does not surprise her nearly as much as it used to.

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They are led to Hilary Taggart, the last living relative of Al "The Prawn" and the last major advocate for the preservation of the Taggart Museum, and thus most likely the next target.

They learn her routine, figure out where she is most vulnerable so they can cover her weak points. Joan notices that Hilary wears a medical alert bracelet, something a person wears in case they go into anaphylactic shock. In the park she frequents they discover a particularly aggressive strain of Africanized honeybee. Sherlock deduces that it is likely she is allergic to bees, and the murderer planning to kill Taggart via bee assassins. The perfect murder, completely mistaken for a freak accident.

"A man after my own heart," Sherlock concludes, sounding almost admiring.

After the recent dealing with Sebastian Moran Joan can't help but see of Moriarty at every turn, but the use of bees is what truly affects her. It reminds her so much of _Sherlock_, because if he ever had plans for murder he would probably act in the same manner. He _loves_ bees, Joan's pretty sure that his father never let him have a pet as a child (Joan isn't sure if this course of action is a purposefully deliberate or just a mere coincidence. She's not sure which possibility scares her more.) and this would be how he did it.

Nighttime soon rolls around, and they had decided to wait until the man who had been feeding the bees to return to catch him in the act. Joan wasn't all too sure what they would do once they caught him, but she was hoping there wouldn't be a repeat of what happened with Moran. She may not be practicing anymore but the idea of 'do no harm' is not something that fades away with time; the lesson is ingrained in her bones and her hands and her very cells. It is a part of who Joan is now, and she cannot knowingly allow another Moran incident to occur. They still haven't informed Captain Gregson what they've been up to, and there have already been two deaths and are trying to prevent the third.

"Why is this different from Moran?" She inquired, desperate to understand.

"Because of you," Sherlock responded. "At the time I have only ever made one meaningful connection in my entire life. Irene. Maybe there would have been one more if I had ever met the person whose words were embedded in my skin, but that will never come to pass. You were taking on a new client, and I thought I would once again be returning to a life of a misanthropist. Your potential is astronomical, and I have very much enjoyed seeing your progress. The thing that is different about me, empirically speaking, is you."

Joan looked up, smiling.

"That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me."

"I want to promise you that when I find the people responsible I won't hurt them. But it is in the same vein in that I would like to promise you if I find a syringe of heroin I won't shoot it into my arm. I guess you are going to have to trust my intent."  
As far as promises went, Joan knew that this was going to be the best she would get out of Sherlock, and at the very least she knew he would at least intend to keep it. That was more than she originally expected.

Sherlock looked up, spotting a moving figure towards the bee's tree to refill the bee's water

"Better decide quickly, though. Beekeeper approaches," He whispered, taking out a Taser and started to make his way towards the tree.

Joan hesitates for a split second, and then stands up from the bench, following Sherlock into whatever trouble he may dive into (and if small voice inside her head wonders why Moriarty cares about Sherlock so much, that is a question for another day).

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Yes some dialogue is used from the show, although it is not usually exactly word for word. The first part of this story does not diverge too much from cannon because Joan and Moriarty have yet to meet, and thus change their behavior accordingly. You guys are the best, can't believe the response I've received. Hopefully this stands up to your expectations! Please review, feedback is how I become better!


	4. Chapter 4

New chapter! I know there isn't any joaniarty quite yet, but bear with me. It's a bit of a slow build, but there should be some by next chapter. Enjoy!

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Sherlock promptly Taser'd the man into submission. Joan supposed there were worse ways Sherlock could have subdued him and chose not to complain. They took the man back to the brownstone, and a quick search through the man's pockets revealed that the man's name was Daniel Gottlieb. They also found information tying him to the previous two murders. Even more damning, they found a cell phone with the same coded messages found on Sebastian Moran. If there was ever a question if Gottlieb was working on his own, it's gone now.

They tied him up using one of Sherlock's strait jackets (in the process Joan noticed he didn't have words on his arm, and tried not to think of why that might be) and placed him on the floor with Joan and Sherlock each taking a chair (everything Sherlock does is precise, not an action done without an express purpose. This is an interrogation technique, physically putting yourself above someone so they mentally associate you with being above them, even if only subconsciously. It's a sign of power. It's why teachers stand at a podium and students are sitting in a desk, why a king's throne is raised above everyone. Joan's just glad he's going for mental manipulation instead of physical).

When Gottlieb woke up, Joan let Sherlock handle the majority of the interrogation. She let Sherlock play the traditional role of 'good cop,' trying to make it seem like it was in his best interest to cooperate. Sherlock informed him that he was going to use the phone to send a text message, and that in exchange for giving them all the information he knows before they receive a text back, Sherlock would put in a good word for him at the NYPD.

Joan and Sherlock both stand up and leave the room, closing the door so Gottlieb can't hear what they are discussing. Sherlock seems eerily calm, but his jaw is clenched, his back too straight and stiff for it to be true. Joan remembers 4th of July parties where they would light fireworks, and for a few seconds after the fuse was lit nothing would happen, things were still the same, until suddenly the fireworks would erupt and sparks would fly and she would wonder how the world was ever considered quiet.

Joan has a tumultuous relationship with fireworks. She loves how beautiful they are but what she loves most is how wild they are. How they shriek and boom and howl and are completely uncontrollable because when she lights them it's like they're making all the noise that she can't because it's not what's expected of her. But as she grew her relationship with fireworks grew rockier because after years of working as a doctor she had seen people with such bad burns that she wondered if just a few moments of freedom were worth such horrible pain (she still doesn't have an answer).

Joan is worried about Sherlock, because it isn't a matter of is his fuse lit or not, it already has, it's a matter of how long does she have before he explodes, and will she be able to make sure he doesn't hurt anyone in the process. The only question is who has been who has been lighting the fuse.

"Aren't you at all nervous?" Joan demands, trying to do as much damage control as possible. Joan isn't sure if the person sending those texts is the mythical Moriarty, but someone is calling the shots and whoever that is doesn't mind having blood on their hands. Sherlock has taken risks in the pasts but attempting to have the complete an undivided attention of a criminal mastermind (maybe one even smarter than him) with a taste for killing is by far the most foolhardy he's ever been. Why did she have to be stuck with the stupid genius?

Sherlock is unresponsive, focused on sending the text.

"Would you like some tea?"

"No I want a drink" Sherlock stopped texting and stared at her.

"Sorry" Joan added, apologetic.

Before she could say anything they heard a bell ring, signaling Gottlieb wanted to talk.

Joan learned both too much and too little about Moriarty. They don't know who he is but they learned exactly what he is capable of. On his orders, Gottlieb assassinated 31 people on his behalf, and that for the past few years he's been active in New York (_Same as Sherlock_ Joan thought, uneasy). Gottlieb told them the story of how he met a British man, who claimed he had experience picking out psychopaths. He picked out a stranger and knew he was a psychopath on a _hunch_. She wasn't sure if even Sherlock would be able to do so (Joan couldn't help but remember Moriarty's possible fixation with Sherlock, Sherlock's actions with Sebastian Moran. Joan knows that Sherlock isn't one, that he is capable of empathy and compassion but Joan knows the possibility is_ there_). Moriarty had also gone to a reform school as child.

But that was not the biggest surprise.

"I know you." Gottlieb stated, looking at Sherlock. "Your face. I was doing some work for him a couple of years ago in London. I got a text with your picture. You were dabbling in drugs. I had an accidental overdose planned for you. But I got another message: job cancelled. That has never happened to me before."

Joan knew that while Moriarty killed Irene, she assumed his interest with Sherlock was piqued shortly after he arrived in New York, not before. If Moriarty had originally planned to kill Sherlock, then what made him change his mind? What did Sherlock do that transferred Moriarty's ire to Irene, killing her instead? Joan felt like she had half the pieces to two different puzzles and nothing made sense.

All of a sudden the sound of a text message interrupted the conversation. Moriarty agreed to the meeting. Looks like they were headed to the Parthenon.

* * *

They drove to the Parthenon, a small 24 hour diner, not expecting for Moriarty to actually show but hoping that they would at least be able to meet one of his intermediaries. Sherlock correctly deduced which one was Moriarty's people (wig, manicure, limited edition watch, shiny red sports car. _Honestly_ Joan thought_ this is New York City. Have they never seen what a junkie is _supposed_ to look like?)_

They followed him, but unfortunately he drove across the train tracks right before a train was about to go by. The meeting place was across the tracks. A silver car pulled up, and before Joan could ask what they should do Sherlock was out of the car with his camera. The train went by, shrouding their view of the meeting but Sherlock just kept taking pictures anyway. By the time the train had passed, both cars were gone.

Luckily Sherlock knew of a way to put together all the pictures he took of the train into something that looks like an actual human face. She's still at a loss how he pulled that one off, but at least now they may have a name to put to a face. But what's even more confusing is that Sherlock has never met this man, so why is he so, well, the best description Joan could think of is _infatuated _with Sherlock?

Joan is exhausted. They've been going for hours and she fell asleep for what felt like a second on the pile of information when Sherlock slammed down a stack of books.

"What time is it?" She asks, stifling a yawn.

"Middle of the work day in England," he responds.

So she had been asleep for barely more than a second.

Sherlock explains that since the man is believed to be both British and in reform school, he has his contacts in Britain fax over all the records of the prisoners in British reform schools.

"Aren't these records sealed?" She wondered aloud, knowing that even if they had committed a dozen illegal acts in the past few days she would rather not become an international criminal.

"Oh, yeah. They don't want just anyone looking at them" he responded, completely missing the irony.

Sherlock started rubbing his wrist, a habit of his meant to help sharpen his focus (where she now knows the words _Door's open_ used to reside).

She looks through the records. His name is John Douglass. Brilliant and dangerous, his roommate at boarding school was beaten to death and 6 months later three of the assailant were dead. In the past 45 years, Douglass has been a ghost, not using his own name but possibly using Moriarty as an alias. Something just doesn't seem right to Joan. Douglass is capable of caring for people, the proof is how badly effected he was by his roommate's death, but if he and Sherlock had never met before then why would he call off the hit on Sherlock?

Joan, exhausted and barely able to keep her eyes open anymore, succumbs to sleep. Upon waking she sees a note entitled Watson. Opening it is a note from Sherlock. It says:

Watson,

I was closer to the truth than I let on. Off to see what I'd do presented with a loaded syringe. My apologies for abandoning you as our drama approaches its climax.

Holmes

If Joan wasn't scared before, she's scared now. She trusts Sherlock, she does, but she's seen so many addicts fall back into old habits even if they never intend to do so again. Joan isn't a very religious person but she finds herself praying.

* * *

A few hours later she receives a call from Detective Bell, telling her that a man Sherlock was with was killed by a sniper. It's horrible, but she feels relief knowing that even if the man was killed, Sherlock wasn't the one to do it and for a second she hopes that Sherlock will finally drop this (it's only a second, Joan knows that he won't now, he never will. He's come too close and the time for walking away was too long ago).

Joan took the car and rushed to the address Bell gave her. By now she's come to know quite a few of New York's finest, and the let her in without a word of protest.

She sees blood on the ground and even though she knows it's not Sherlock's part of her wants to go and inspect every inch of him to make see if he is injured in any way.

"Are you alright?" She asks Sherlock, needing to know he's safe.

"I'm fine."

Joan sees an object on the table, recognizing her old medical bag. Sherlock is saying something to Captain Gregson but she's not paying him much attention (she's scared for what she might find, hoping that Sherlock was going to keep his word) opening the bag only to find "Legos?"

"It need a certain heft if it was gonna fool John Douglass" Sherlock said, half smiling.

She's never been so happy to see a children's toy. He didn't break his word. Joan has rarely felt such relief. Although she sees the comparisons she is reminded that Sherlock is different than Moriarty, the proof is in her hands.

* * *

They hand Daniel Gottlieb over to the police. For once, everything goes according to plan, and Gottlieb cooperates fully. Joan, Sherlock, and Captain Gregson are the behind the interrogation room, looking through the two way mirror watching Gottlieb confesses to the 18th murder when Gottlieb's phone receives a text.

Sherlock looks at it, not recognizing the code used so he barges into the interrogation demanding that Gottlieb translates the code. Unfortunately, Gottlieb doesn't know the code either. They know only one other person who knows the codes Moriarty likes to use, so while Sherlock heads to Newgate to speak to Sebastian Moran Joan decides to go back to the brownstone and get something to eat. She's been too nervous to eat, and she's finally got her appetite back. She can't do anything about Moriarty, but Sherlock has been keeping his head above the water, and that's enough for now.

After a while Sherlock comes back to the brownstone, his visit unsuccessful. He starts to attempt to crack the cipher himself instead. Joan knows that she is no help in this area, so she decides to stay up for a little longer before she goes to sleep, sure that with some sleep they would both be more productive

She goes to tell Sherlock, "It is 10:17, how about if you haven't cracked it by 11, we'll both get some rest."

After living with Sherlock for so long Joan can spot Sherlock's Eureka face from a mile away.

"Thank you Watson! You know some people without possessing genius have a remarkable knack for stimulating it" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Wow. An insult and a complement. Have you been spending time with my mother?"

"10:17 Moran needed to know the time of when the message was sent. That's the decryption key."

Sherlock furiously scribbled away furiously, eager to know what the message said and to be a step ahead of Moriarty.

Sherlock finishes, and pauses. Sherlock reads aloud: "Moran, you never told me you had a soulmate. She dies or you do. Your choice. M."

Sherlock immediately picks up the phone to warn Captain Gregson, but they're too late. Moran's alive, but the swelling in his brain may mean he will never wake up. Any information he has about Moriarty are out of there reach.

Once again Moriarty is 5 steps ahead of them. "He had you bring the message to Moran. Moran doesn't have any marks on his skin, they would have logged that into system. You couldn't have known." Joan said, trying to console him but knowing that it probably wouldn't work anyway. Sherlock is his own harshest critic.

"Yeah, you know that's what idiots tell themselves when they've been outsmarted," He responded bitterly, success almost in his grasp only to slip away once he closed his fist. "Twice Moriarty had me in his sights and twice he's let me go. I don't know what his game is."

He voices all of Joan's fears. "Seems like you're the game." Joan responds, because this is a man that doesn't see people or even a puzzle to be figured out and then left alone, like Sherlock often does. This is a man who sees people as games and to him, Sherlock is just a fun game for him to win.

Without warning, Gottlieb's phone starts ringing. Joan knows that there isn't any way to convince Sherlock to not play Moriarty's games, so she takes out her own phone and goes to the recording App.

"This is Sherlock Holmes" he states.

"Yes, thank you. Well aware" a man responds, British, sounding cultured and polished.

"And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?" Sherlock inquires, but already knowing the answer.

_"_My name is Moriarty. I believe we're overdue for a chat" is the response. It is stated calmly, as if he wasn't turning their whole world upside down and on its head. Joan wonders what's going to happen next.

* * *

A/N: I know people are going to ask, but Moriarty/ Irene has not, nor will ever be Sherlock's soulmate. I also have quite a bit of the next chapter already written, so hopefully it won't be too long until the next update. Please comment, reviews are how I know what I should improve. If you spot a typo, please let me know it would be much appreciated. Hope you liked it!


	5. Chapter 5: Joan, You Should Know Better

A/N So when I first started this chapter I was determined that this would be the chapter that we would finally get to Moriarty. And somehow this 20 page monstrosity happened. I pretty much doubled my fic length. Right now it's mostly been tweaks because the soulmate concept hasn't really affected too much, but after this chapter expect things to start changing a lot more.

Also somehow my small first fanfiction is in the top 100 most kudos'd fics in the Elementary category on AO3. Excuse me while I walk around in a daze, wondering what's happening (so no pressure.). There's a very good chance you guys broke me. Hopefully I won't let you down with this one, and hopefully you aren't disappointed! Enjoy!

* * *

_"My name is Moriarty. I believe we're overdue for a chat" is stated calmly, as if he wasn't turning their whole world upside down and on its head._

"Well if this is Moriarty, then yeah, long overdue" he responds sarcastically, voice tense and muscles taut.

"If?'

"You're just a voice on the telephone. I don't even know if you have a first name. Mind telling it to me?" Sherlock asks, voice deceptively polite, as if the answer barely interested him when nothing mattered to him as much as knowing the identity of Moriarty.

"I appreciate your passing my message along to Sebastian Moran. It would have been quite troublesome to pass along a message myself. I hear his prognosis is quite grave." Joan had rarely heard such a smug tone, and she'd been living with Sherlock for the past year.

"So what?" He replies tersely.

I expect you to feel angry because I manipulated you. Rather easily, I might add" Moriarty explains, again trying to bait Sherlock. Trying to make him play Moriarty's game. Joan is angry, but she's afraid still. She's indignant and furious on Sherlock's behalf, but she's still more afraid of how Moriarty will hurt Sherlock next (luckily Joan doesn't really to seem to be on Moriarty's radar. His mistake. She'll never play his games.).

"Chin up Holmes. Manipulation is my business." He states, sounding almost cheery.

"Seems like murder is more your business," loathing present in every syllable.

"A part of it" Moriarty concedes. Joan thinks that it is only a part of it because once a person is dead the game can no longer continue.

"Explain"

"Consider me a spider" he starts. "I sit motionless in the center of my web. That web has a thousand radiations and I know well every quiver of each of them. I do little myself, I only plan. But my agents are numerous and splendidly organized." Joan's grip on her phone started to get a little tighter. Knots were forming in her stomach and it took every trick that she knew from working as a surgeon to keep her breathing even and hands steady. How far does this go? How many cities does this affect? Sherlock was in London with Moriarty, now Moriarty is in New York. States? Countries? Is there anywhere we can go that Moriarty won't follow?

He continued, "If there is a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, a house to be rifled, a man to be removed, the word is passed to me, the matter is planned and carried out."

"So you're a pimp and assassins are your girls." Sherlock said dismissively, trying to get a rise out of Moriarty because Joan can tell if Moriarty has any flaws it's that he is so unbelievably proud.

Moriarty laughed, seeing through Sherlock's ruse. "Yes, I suppose that's one way of putting it."

"Irene Adler" Sherlock changes the subject abruptly. "Did you have her killed?"

"That is the question, is it not?" The response is swift, as if he was expecting it. He probably was Joan thought. "One that's haunted you for many months."

"Why did you do it? What is your interest in me?"

"You want answers. I don't blame you. But first I require something of you." Joan wants to say something, tell him not to do it, not to play his games, but Sherlock needs answers and Joan can't say she doesn't want to know them either. She's just as curious as Sherlock is, and this man once destroyed her friend.

"I'd like to hire you. Not as an assassin, though I do believe you'd excel in that position" he adds, giving voice to one of Joan's greatest fears. "I'd like to secure your services as an investigator. A man named Wallace Rourke was murdered in Brooklyn several months ago. The New York Police Department investigated but failed to find any leads. Bring his killer to justice and I promise I'll give you all the answers you can handle." The line went dead, and so did any of Joan's hope for a stress free week.

* * *

Sherlock promptly logged into the Apple computer and ran a search on the name Wallace Rourke, looking for clues on the murder _Moriarty,_ of all people, was instructing them to investigate.

Joan wasn't sure whether or not they should take this case. On the surface it seemed like any other investigation they had engaged in, but she couldn't get rid of the feeling that they were about to open Pandora's Box. That was also oddly phrased, 'all you can handle.'

Sherlock would do anything for answers, even play Moriarty's game, but Joan never liked playing games with stakes this steep. Poker was one such game she abhorred (ironically, she rarely lost. After so many years of working in professions that required her to correctly interpret people's tells and minute reactions poker is rather easy in comparison. It doesn't mean she likes it).

Joan can barely believe that Sherlock is just going to go along with whatever Moriarty wanted (but of course she can, its Moriarty). "Aren't we going to talk about this?"

Sherlock ignored her and kept reading aloud facts from the police report.

"Moriarty, or someone claiming to be Moriarty called," Joan went on, feeling more and more annoyed at Sherlock's devil-may-care attitude towards his safety, "and asked you to take a case and _you're doing it_." Joan exclaimed, trying to make Sherlock see how insanely he was behaving.

"And why wouldn't I?" Sherlock responded, still acting cavalier.

"For one thing, he's a dangerous, soulless psychopath. For another, you think he's behind Irene's death" Joan replied, willing him to understand.

"Yes I've already gleaned that Moriarty is between 40 and 45 years of age," he replied vehemently. "He hails from Sussex, and he has some interest or connection to Mr. Wallace Rourke. As the case continues, there will be more interactions. And with each, more of the man will be revealed."

Joan still doesn't comprehend Sherlock's thought process. "Assuming the man on the phone is actually Moriarty!"

"Even if it is a mere minion, just identifying the minion will get me closer to identifying the man himself!"

"How do you know it's not a trap and he doesn't wanna kill you?" Joan pointed out.

"He doesn't."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because three years ago, he ordered Daniel Gottlieb not to kill me. Last night, I was in the sights of another assassin's rifle. Yet, here I sit. It couldn't be clearer. He doesn't want me dead."

But Joan's not that sure. She's reminded of one of her childhood toys. In celebration of finally receiving her marks, her stepfather gave her a Matryoshka, a wooden Russian nesting doll. The doll is meant to be taken apart, and inside is yet another doll. Inside that doll is yet another doll, and the trend continues until you reach the smallest doll. Inside the smallest doll resides a secret. Joan remembers that at first, she would sometimes place a small charm, a piece of candy, or even the name of her crush inside. However, when she was 9 she found her mother looking inside her doll, and the only secrets she ever put in were either completely made up, or secrets that were never really secret in the first place. She's only ever put one true secret in there since that day. She was 18, going off to college and much too old to play with such childish things, and she had put the true color of her marks in that doll. The day before she showed her mother her marks she'd already been practicing going over the blood-colored words in black marker for over a week. She wasn't sure why she did it, but the color equally frightened and captivated her (Joan still has that doll in storage somewhere).

There were so many dolls (diversions) that even if someone took the time to get to the secret (identity), what was found wasn't guaranteed to be true, especially when someone knows that they have an audience. Moriarty is a master, if not _the_ master at misdirection and diversion and he _lives_ for the game. Sherlock decided to play, and as soon as he loses Joan isn't at all sure what will become of him (this is why she thinks he is still alive. Moriarty would never kill someone with the potential to be such an exciting opponent, until they are no longer exciting. This is why Joan never wanted to play in the first place).

_Yet _Joan almost screams at him. _He doesn't want you dead _yet.

Instead she demands, "Then what does he want?"

"That's precisely what I intend to find out."

He stalks away. Joan watches him, but she doesn't follow. Not this time.

* * *

The next morning they head to the precinct to look at the original case files. They know he was attacked by an unknown assailant, his possessions were stolen, and that he was married. A detective walks into the room they are using, telling them Captain Gregson wants to talk. Much to their surprise it is not with Sherlock but with Joan.

Gregson wants to talk about an old friend's daughter, who's become involved with drugs and may need a sober companion. She knows exactly what he's doing, and decides not to call him out and instead pretends to be oblivious and offers Gregson some names before going to interview Rourke's wife.

For the majority of the interview, Joan let Sherlock ask the questions, content to simply look around the apartment for clues. Mrs. Rourke was the one who called the police searching for her husband after her mark suddenly disappeared. A few hours later they found Wallace Rourke in an alleyway, but he was already dead. They continued to question her regarding Moriarty to see if she might know anyone by the name of Moriarty. However, Mrs. Rourke had never even heard of the name Moriarty. Also, Mr. Rourke didn't exactly have any international ties to Moriarty since he worked in a garage, further cementing Mrs. Rourke's claims and decreasing the likelihood that she was lying.

However, she did mention that Rourke believed he was being followed. Joan wasn't sure if it was mere coincidence or if there was some legitimacy to Rourke's claim, but they promised to do everything they could.

So how exactly did Wallace Rourke gain the attention of Moriarty (or at the very least his British imitator)? Joan wondered.

Luckily, Mrs. Rourke decided to cooperate and allowed them to borrow Wallace's belongings for a short time. They then loaded up the car with the necessary items and headed back to the brownstone to further their examination.

While Sherlock analyzed the Rourkes' finances Joan hung up documents for the murder board. Sherlock observed that the Rourkes made very little money, which would be unusual for an employ of Moriarty since Moran and Gottlieb were paid a substantial amount. He concluded that Rourke was most likely very proficient at hiding money; although he did concede that there was a small chance he was not working for Moriarty at all.

Joan continued to examine the M.E.'s report, noting that the stab wounds are congruent with someone who was not struggling or resisting. This was odd, considering Rourke had a military background.

A further analysis by Sherlock brought to light a blow designed to stun to the mastoid process, a very deliberate and methodical way of eliminating someone. This was not an accident.

"Moriarty's right. Obviously. There's more to this than meets the eye" Sherlock states, sounding equally bitter and admiring.

Abruptly, Sherlock heads to the kitchen, claiming that he requires sustenance. Joan stares at the murder board for a few moments longer, trying to gain more information about Rourke, before temporarily throwing in the towel and quietly following Sherlock into the kitchen. His back is turned and he is looking through the spice cabinet so he doesn't yet know that she's there (that's a lie, he always knows where she is), and she is plagued by incisiveness.

Before she can turn around and head upstairs, Sherlock booms, "Out with it Watson! Or are you gonna spend all night almost asking me something."

Joan sighs and braces herself. Making up her mind she asks, "What was she like? Irene," she clarifies (as if he doesn't know exactly who she is talking about). "You talk about what happened to her, and what she was to you, but you never talk about who she was."

_The only thing I really know about her is that you loved her like your soulmate_ Joan thinks, but knows some things should go unsaid.

"She was difficult to explain," he stated. That alone is enough to surprise Joan, for she has rarely, if ever, seen Sherlock at a loss for words. "And I mean that as a compliment. She was American," he adds, astonishing Joan further.

"Really," she responds, disbelief evident in her voice.

"I held it against her only briefly. She was an exquisite painter. She made her living restoring Renaissance paintings for art museums."

Joan herself had very little artistic ability. She took a few classes as a child, but stopped when she was about five (sometimes, she remembers Sunday afternoons painting Central Park with a man with her eyes, but she quickly pushes those memories back in a small box in the back of her mind). However, growing up the Met was one of her favorite places. When she was an undergraduate studying at NYU and having and having a particularly rough day, she would go to the Met and stare at the different pieces of art for hours. It was very therapeutic (not to mention free, she was a starving college student at the time).

"She was highly intelligent," he continued, lost in memories. "Never allowed the fact that she no longer had any marks on her skin from living her life to the fullest. Optimistic about the human condition."

"You mean that as a complement?" Joan inquired, wondering what the self-proclaimed misanthrope thought about optimism.

"I do oddly enough." He revealed, making Joan want to meet the person that made Sherlock of all people see optimism as a positive trait to possess. "I usually consider it a sign of stupidity," he sighed, confirming Joan's theory, "but with her, it seemed almost convincing. She was, to me, the woman. To me, she eclipsed and predominated the whole of her gender. She's the only one who I…" Here he trails off.

Irene sounded like such an interesting person, and not for the first time Joan wished that they could meet. She was intrigued by the kind of person who could capture and keep Sherlock's attention, and thinks that they could have been friends. At the very least she could help her keep Sherlock from doing anything _too _crazy (she will always grieve for his loss, but in a small, dark crevice in her soul she is selfishly glad that Irene is dead, because without her death Sherlock wouldn't have any reason to come to New York, and they would have never met. She would never mind sharing him, but she can no longer imagine a life without at least a small piece of Sherlock. This is her darkest secret. He will never know.).

"And the sex!" He starts, eyes alight.

"You, you don't have to," she stammers, exasperated (damned karma).

"I learned things, Watson. Me. And that hasn't happened before." Joan chose to think of the awe as surprise over actually learning from someone, rather than what exactly he might have been learning.

Sherlock paused, suddenly focused intently on the document he had in his hands.

"What is it?" she asked, knowing that the discussion about Irene was now over.

"I think Wallace Rourke might've been right about being followed. Have a look at that." He shoves the shipping envelope into her hands. She looks at it, but other than an old shipping label she doesn't observe any irregularities, and tells him so.

"For the cell phone he had on him when he died," he agrees. "Look at the address."

It's an address on Lexington. Sherlock goes on to conclude that all major cell phone distributions are upstate, this address is not. He further concludes that the simplest way to follow someone is to track their phone, if you had the electronic identification number. Which they would if they supplied the phone in the first place.

So the question was asked: who supplied Rourke's new phone? A quick search of the address on Google provided the answer: Daren Sutter of Sutter Risk Management

Tomorrow they resolved to head to the corporation and look for any possible connection to Moriarty. Finished for the day and without anything to do to further the investigation, Joan went up to her room for the night. As she started to fall asleep, she realized that during the entire conversation, not once did he refer to Irene by name.

Once they had their morning coffee, or in Sherlock's case tea (necessary staples in the brownstone), they took the Subway to Sutter Risk Management. Normally they wouldn't even get past the reception office, but the name of the NYPD went far in places like these. They were seated and asked to wait, and in the meantime Sherlock and Joan read the autobiography Sutter wrote (it literally was the only thing for them to read, and right now Joan was happy to have anything that might distract Sherlock from brooding),

After a few minutes of browsing she asked, "You learning anything?"

"Apparently if my gut tells me I'm in danger, I probably am. Profound stuff," he stated disparagingly.

Joan suppressed a smile. She mostly succeeded. Mostly. "Guy runs one of the biggest private security firms in the country. He's gotta know something," she suggested, knowing that so many times those that claimed to be 'experts' at something just had very good advisors.

Before Sherlock could respond, two people dressed in business wear approached.

"Mr. Holmes, Miss Watson," said the man in a suit that costs more than what Joan makes in a month. "Hi. I'm Daren Sutter. This is my wife, Kate," he introduced, shaking their hands.

Kate started, "We were told you consult for the NYPD."

"We have a few questions for you," Sherlock started. "If it's all the same with you, we'd like to ask them in private."

Joan knew they would agree. They were a security firm, and the risk of possibly damning information being overheard was too great a risk for the Sutters to take.

As they entered Daren Sutter's office, Joan noted the large collection of martial arts memorabilia.

"So you're a third-degree black belt in Kyokushinkai." Sherlock noted.

Joan had never even heard of that branch of martial arts, but she was instantly on alert. Someone with those kinds of skills would be capability of killing Wallace Rourke, even with his Special Forces training.

"Yeah only took me 20 years of study to pull it off," Daren Sutter replied. Do you practice?"

"A bit of singlestick now and again."

"How can we help you?" Kate asked, cutting straight to the chase.

Sherlock showed them the picture of Wallace Rourke. Joan tried to gauge their reactions to see if either of them showed any signs of recognition. Both denied knowing him (despite being corporate workers they were surprisingly bad liars) , even after Sherlock explained that Rourke's cell phone was destroyed via coffee and he ordered another. However, the cell phone was never turned on, likely because it was intercepted by Sutter Risk Management. He even showed them the shipping label proving that the cell phone definitely came from them.

Finally, Darren admitted to spying on Rourke, but only for a couple of days rather than months. They were looking into him because of alleged threats made against one of their client's soulmate. He explained that they briefly put him under legal surveillance before dismissing the accusations as unfounded. However, they would not distribute the name of their client.

As they were walking down the stairs, Joan hypothesized, "Let me guess. The client who demanded Wallace Rourke to be investigated is our newest suspect for Rourke's murder. Now all we have to do is figure out who he is."

"Already have," Sherlock announced. "First name Made, last name Up. I also believe he shares a striking resemblance to this man," he concluded, pointing to the picture of Darren Sutter on the back of his autobiography.

Well. Looks like Sherlock _did_ learn something useful.

* * *

With all of the chaos brought about by Moriarty's involvement with their cases they'd been running low on groceries. They stopped by the market to buy some basic staples (Sherlock couldn't get enough of peanut butter; apparently it is a distinctly American condiment that he had for the first time last. Plus it took only a few seconds to make.).

They got back to the brownstone to make a dinner of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Sherlock also went on to explain how he deduced the supposed 'confession' from Sutter's book.

"He published that book more than five years ago," Joan stated, puzzled bafflement evident in her voice. "How would he confess to something he hadn't done yet? Also I thought that Sutter's connection was through that mysterious client."

"This book is more than a mass market précis of his insights into security and risk management Watson" Sherlock responded. "It is a window into what drew him to the field in the first place. Look at page thirteen."

Joan started to make herself a sandwich, but Sherlock handed her the book, pointing out the relevant information.

Apparently when Sutter was 23 his sister Leah was brutally murdered during a home-invasion robbery. Sutter got home just as the perpetrator fled the house and was able to give the police a full description of the murderer.

On page 14 there was a picture drawn by a sketch artist. Sherlock reached over and placed a picture of Wallace Rourke next to it. The resemblance was definitely there. Regardless of whether he did or didn't commit the murder, Sutter may have _thought_ Rourke was a murderer. And that was all that mattered.

"So you think Wallace Rourke is the one who killed Sutter's sister 22 years ago." Joan stated, continuing to make her sandwich.

"The police never caught the culprit. Sutter was tormented and guilty for his failure and law enforcement's failure to apprehend the killer. It became his raison d'etre. It's why he dropped out of business school, began to study law enforcement, security and Kyokushinkai karate, which utilizes mastoid strikes"

Joan paused, realization hitting her. "Just like the blow used on Wallace Rourke before he was stabbed to death. Now all we really know is that Wallace Rourke has a passing resemblance to an old police sketch. Did he have a criminal history?" She inquired, trying to ascertain if the two men were one and the same.

"According to his Army record, he enlisted under a waiver, which means a judge gave him the choice between prison or the Army. His conviction was for breaking and entering" he responded.

Well now they know Rourke had the means. "Can we place Rourke anywhere near the murder?"

"Following his discharge, Rourke moved back to his mother's house in Stamford, Connecticut which I believe is half an hour's drive from where Leah was killed."

"So it is possible that Rourke killed Leah Sutter more than 20 years ago, and that in retribution Sutter tracked Rourke down and killed him." It was interesting, but there still was one question that still had to be answered: "But why does Moriarty care about any of this?"

"I believe he wants us to bring down Sutter. His security firm is one of the best in the country. With Sutter removed, it would make his clients more vulnerable. Moriarty may have one of them in his crosshairs."

"Which means that our work on this case may cost someone their life."

"Not if our work leads to Moriarty's undoing first," Sherlock responded confidently. "Which means we save that person and anyone else Moriarty intends to victimize in the future."

But Joan's not so sure. There's too many variables, too many pieces and Joan can't make them fit. This is one theory, but Moriarty has always been 10 steps ahead of them. Joan doesn't think the main focus is Sutter, it's always been Sherlock. Moriarty most likely has people in the police who could do this themselves, so why get Sherlock to do the leg work? What does he have to gain?

"Ok, let's say Moriarty planned this," she responds, trying to make the pieces fit. "That would mean he already knew that Sutter killed Wallace Rourke." She's just going to always assume Moriarty is ahead of Sherlock. Once is an anomaly, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern. Joan may not have Sherlock's intuitive prowess, but she knows a trend when she sees one.

"Which is why I've arranged a meeting with Sutter tomorrow morning in private."

Joan paused (_I'm never going to be able to eat at this rate_). "In private?"

"It's going to be a delicate conversation." Joan just stared at him.

Trying to appease her he added "For what it's worth he's not bringing his wife either."

Before she could protest any further he took the book with him and left the room. Joan shook her head and focused on her meal. Before she could even take a bite her phone rang. She received a text from Captain Gregson, once again inquiring if she was interested in being a sober companion. She sighed and left the text unanswered. An hour later she went to bed, wondering what was in store for tomorrow.

* * *

Since she wasn't invited to Sherlock's meeting, for the first time in what felt like months Joan was able to sleep in. After making herself some coffee and oatmeal, Sherlock came back and reported in on his meeting. Apparently Moriarty found out about the situation through bugging Sutter's office (the irony of a risk management company being at risk was not lost on Joan).

Unfortunately, there was still the matter of Captain Gregson to deal with.

She heads to the precinct, determined to end this one and for all. She heads up the stairs and into his office (by now she doesn't even need a visitor's pass to get in).

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Joan demands, wondering why Gregson is being so damned persistent about this.

Gregson looks up from what he is doing on the computer. "What are you talking about?" he inquires.

"You keep bringing up your friend in Boca, I just feel like you're pushing me to take that offer for some reason. Are you unhappy with my work?" she wonders, needing to understand the sudden change in dynamics.

"No, of course not." As if her worries were completely irrational. "I appreciate the work you've done with Holmes." He stands up from his seat. "And you're turning into a pretty damn good investigator in your own right." He compliments. Joan hears the stipulation before he even says it.

"But?"

Here Gregson pauses and offers her to sit down. Joan walks towards the chair while Gregson closes the door. "There's something you gotta try to understand." He begins. "Guys like him, they walk between the raindrops. They don't get wet. People like you do. People like his ex-girlfriend do. I know they've never met, but people like his soulmate do. Like he always says, once is an anomaly, twice is a coincidence, but three times is a pattern. I don't want you to make it a pattern. He's probably the most brilliant person I've ever met but sometimes he's so concerned with whether it's a knife being pointed at him or a gun he doesn't notice that it doesn't matter and that both are just as capable of hurting him."

"So you're concerned about my safety?" She asks, voice deceptively quiet.

"In case you haven't noticed, a lot of bodies been dropping around our boy of late," is his response.

"You're in the danger zone too!" she retorts, wondering why her safety is so much more important and fragile.

"I've been a cop for 30 years. I carry a gun."

"And a penis," she sighs, facing this kind of prejudice in all of her careers and still sick of it.

"Hey, you think this is about you being a woman?"

"I don't understand why you are concerned about _my_ safety specifically," she fires back.

She knows Gregson's heart is in the right place, but she can't help but to be irritated. It's not in her nature to quit when she's already started something (Joan knows the difference between a chapter ending and prematurely ending a chapter). He denies it but Joan has a feeling it's mostly because she is a woman. The hypocrisy is astounding. Gregson is a much larger target than Joan ever has been since he is both Sherlock's friend and captain of the NYPD. And yet he just wants her to walk away from everything because Sherlock is in danger. As if women had a monopoly on being murdered.

She knows he means well, but she still hates the indignity of the entire thing. This isn't the first time that Joan has dealt with such prejudice (there is a bit of a dearth of female Asian cardio-thoracic surgeons) but Joan hates stereotypes all the same.

"No one, and I mean no one, is closer to this guy than you are. He doesn't have many friends. His soulmate isn't even alive to take some of the brunt of the scrutiny that's put on you, even if they hadn't met yet. At the very least they would be another person that needed to be located and could be used as a distraction, but they're not. Anyone looking to hurt him would just have to look where you are. You live in his house, for crying out loud."

"He needs me right now," because after years of being a sober companion she can tell when a person is dangerously close to the edge.

"That guy is always gonna need someone!" he answers, sounding very much like her therapist. "He may be the smartest guy I've ever met in my life but he is also the most self-absorbed. He probably doesn't even recognize the danger you're in," he leans in closer, giving voice to some of her worries. "I do."

Suddenly there's a tap on the door. Detective Bell walks in. Apparently Darren Sutter just arrived and wanted to confess to the murder of Wallace Rourke. Sherlock was right when he claimed that Sutter's office was bugged.

Well. Looks like Moriarty got exactly what he wanted. Joan doesn't regret bringing a murderer to justice but she can't help but feel dirty. If this was the task they needed to complete, then what would be the reward? Joan can't help but feel they are about to open Pandora's box, and she wonders what they will unleash.

* * *

She met up with Sherlock behind the two way mirror of the interrogation room. They watch Captain Gregson question Sutter, confirming all of their suspicions in the process.

Sherlock breaks the silence. "He found Moriarty's bugs."

"You think that's how Moriarty knew Rourke was murdered," she confirmed.

"Well, he knew that someone was listening in. Probably decided to turn himself in so he could get the best deal possible," he said, voice pensive and broody. "If only he would have come to me instead. I could have helped him."

"Probably thought you were part of the conspiracy too," Joan added, always the voice of reason.

There was a pregnant pause. "I suppose I am," he added, and then left the room.

He held the door open for her and she followed. "So what now?"

"I held up my end of the bargain. I found Wallace Rourke's killer and brought him to justice." Joan had never felt so sick turning in a murderer as she did now. He continued "Now we await his call and my answers."

* * *

The car ride back to the brownstone was spent in silence. Joan made herself dinner before turning on the news. All anyone could talk about was Sutter's confession, and still the call from Moriarty had yet to arrive.

Sherlock was being driven up the wall, impatiently waiting for the phone to ring. Of course that's when he decided that playing his own version of kickball in the house was a good idea.

"Moriarty must have heard about Sutter's arrest by now. Why hasn't he called?" Sherlock whined, kicking the ball again and again against the wall.

Joan rolled her eyes and sighed. "Moriarty, as you so eloquently put it, is an assassin pimp. I'm not sure if he is the most steady and reliable source of information. Who knows when or if, he'll call."

"I'm well aware of Moriarty's machinations." He kicks the soccer ball again. "I may not know what his next move will be, but I can know that he will make one. In that manner he is very reliable."

For a glorious second he stopped kicking the damn ball. "Why were you at the police station when Sutter came in to confess?"

Well this is what they meant by no good deed goes unpunished. "I needed to talk to Gregson," was her only reply, hoping he would leave it at that (hoping, not expecting).

"A continuation of your earlier mysterious conversation or is it an entirely new one?" He pushed, not relenting in the slightest. And then he kicked the ball again.

The phone rang. Joan knew who would be on the other end but she was just so happy that he finally stopped kicking that infernal ball that she couldn't make herself too worried. Her relief was short lived as the implications caught up with her.

Once again she opened the recording app on her phone, making sure not to miss a word Moriarty might say.

Moriarty is the one to break the silence first. "I see Daren Sutter is under arrest. Congratulations," he drawls out.

"I held up my half of the bargain, I expect you to do the same." Rarely has Joan ever heard Sherlock speak so seriously.

"To the contrary you've only revealed part of the truth. I owe you nothing." Joan was not a violent person by nature but she really wanted to break something. _What did you expect_ Joan wanted to scream at Sherlock_ he's a criminal, a professional liar who loves to play games. Why did you choose to play?_

"You want the whole truth? I know a great deal more than you think. I know that Sutter was your target all along. I know you had him under surveillance," he starts to pick up speed. "That you didn't want to reveal that surveillance to the authorities so you utilized me to expose him."

"You're slipping Holmes." The amusement is clearly evident in Moriarty's voice, as if nothing gave him greater pleasure than tormenting Sherlock. "I'm referring to the truth about Leah Sutter's murder."

_We needed to focus on the facts that weren't spoon fed to them by Moriarty in the first place _was Joan's opinion on the matter. Moriarty expected them to find this out. He also already knows the entire truth, or is lying about it but he wants them to do something else for him. No surprise there. The only question is how long Moriarty will want to use them. For all they know, there will always be another question Moriarty wants them to answer.

"Wallace Rourke killed her," he responded, conviction in his voice.

"No, in fact, he did not." Joan's noticed Moriarty likes crashing Sherlock's world views into the ground. "He had an alibi."

"Let me guess, his mother swears she dealt him into her bridge hand that evening." Sherlock refutes sarcastically, refusing to believe his theory could be wrong.

"After Rourke left the Army his mail went to his mother's house in Connecticut, but Rourke did not." Joan reached for a pen and notepad. "He was in Saudi Arabia doing off-the books work for an American oil company. He didn't return until March 1991, and then soon after met his soulmate." The last part was said with a mocking inflection in Moriarty's tone. Odd. Maybe some the rumors of Moriarty's lack of a soulmate were true after all.

"Sutter swears that he saw him," Sherlock stated. There's less conviction this time, more like he's just trying to hold onto his truths before they are knocked aside.

"Sutter is wrong," is the vehement reply. "He killed the wrong man. And your work is far from done. _Finish it_."

The line went dead. Well, that was not how Joan expected the conversation to go.

* * *

Sherlock kept replaying the conversation, looking for any clues that he might have missed. In the meantime, Joan took out some blankets and decided to catch up on sleep on the couch. Unfortunately, she was rudely awoken by a light-happy Sherlock. He kept flickering the light of a lamp on her face, trying to wake her up.

"Oh good you're awake," was his only response, like he didn't purposefully wake her up.

"How long was I out?" she asked, voice thick with sleep.

"Hundred and seven minutes. Enough time to cycle through all five stages of REM sleep." An hour and 47 minutes. After this is all over Joan thinks she's going to need another talk about boundaries again.

She sat up, trying to get her bearings. Sherlock started talking about what he had been doing for the last 2 hours. Apparently he couldn't prove Rourke was in Saudi Arabia during the time of the murder, but he couldn't disprove it either. Rourke's possessions and mail went to his mother's house in Connecticut, but there wasn't any evidence proving that Rourke went with them, including any traces of financial evidence. Also there was medical evidence that Rourke planned on going to a foreign country. Furthermore, one of the vaccinations he received was necessary only for travelling to Saudi Arabia. Also fingerprints were left on the door, believed by the police to be left by the killer, and were not a match for Wallace Rourke.

It wasn't conclusive, but it looked like Moriarty was right. What a surprise. But that left the question, who killed Sutter's sister?

Joan didn't like this. Sherlock worked best when he wasn't second guessing everything he did and Moriarty makes Sherlock doubt himself. Not to mention Moriarty kept on adding stipulations to everything they did. The original deal was for the discovery of Wallace Rourke's murder, not Leah Sutter. They held up their end of the bargain but still he wants more.

Joan wonders if Moriarty will always want more, if this isn't just Lucy with the football (every time Charlie Brown went to kick the football, Lucy would promise not to take it away before he could kick it and every time she broke her word and just _laughed_.)

"Maybe Moriarty's right because he set Sutter up." The guy is a criminal mastermind, it's not like he hasn't done worse.

"An interesting theory but nigh impossible. Darren Sutter saw the man, has his image etched on his brain. You can never forget that; never forget the person who took your most important person from you, someone you loved!" He stopped. Joan had a feeling he wasn't talking about Sutter anymore.

"It is a conundrum, but once solved we will have the complete truth which Moriarty has requested." But Moriarty didn't request the complete truth. "I have a horrid taste in my mouth!" He stomped up the stairs to the bathroom.

Joan sighed and put her head in her hands. She took a deep breath and followed him up the stairs.

"Why do you think Moriarty is so interested in you?" Sherlock is incredibly gifted but sometimes he doesn't really understand people. Sometimes he needs Joan's help to see what's going on.

"He's my enemy," he states, as if it is that simple.

"Yes but _why_?" Joan asks.

"I must have interrupted some criminal enterprise of his in London." That's too simple an explanation, especially since Sherlock moved to New York and away from any of Moriarty's dealings.

"Then why not kill you? Why do what he did to Irene? Why is he making you jump through hoops now that you're in New York?" Sherlock wants answers from Moriarty but Joan isn't sure if he is asking the questions that he should be.

"He's a more complex opponent than I've faced in a long time." He rinses out his mouth with water, completely blasé.

"Are you even afraid of him?" she wondered, her voice incredulous

"I find fear to be an unproductive emotion that dampens my power of-"

"Can't you answer a question like a normal human being?" she interrupts. He might not be scared but she is. Joan's not afraid to admit when she is wrong, and maybe she's starting to understand Gregson's point (she's not going to leave, but what he's saying is making more and more sense).

"As I mentioned earlier, he clearly doesn't wanna kill me, so no, I'm not afraid." He's able to avoid the raindrops. Joan doesn't have that luxury.

"Well there are ways to hut you that do not involve hurting _you_," she said quietly, looking away and rubbing her collarbone.

That finally got to him. "Watson, I know there are risks that we undertake engaging in the work that we do, we cannot escape them, but know this. As far as Moriarty is concerned, I will never allow any harm to come to you. Not ever," he vowed. Joan so badly wanted to believe him, but she knew he wasn't infallible.

"You can't promise that," was her response, angry that he couldn't see she wasn't just someone to keep safe. This was a partnership, and she was not a damsel in distress that needed rescuing. Just because Moriarty wasn't going to kill him didn't mean that he was also safe from harm.

And neither was Joan.

"And yet I have." After a moment he continued. "Now, in regards to the amount of information we have just gone through I propose we split up. I will go interview Mr. Sutter once again, but this time you shall see Mrs. Sutter. See if you can't convince her that access to the firm's client list might help us find the man who put them in this predicament. Ok?"

Joan left without a word.

* * *

Joan made sure to make an appointment in advance with Kate Sutter. At the beginning of their meeting Kate said "Sorry, give me a second, I really need to write this down."

"No problem," Joan responded.

She started writing in her planner but her pen exploded, ink getting everywhere.

"Here let me help," Joan said, fishing around her purse for a disinfectant wipe that she's learned to carry around.

Kate took off her watch and with a nod of thanks started cleaning off her wrist until all that was left was tanned skin.

Joan started the recording of Moriarty's first phone call to see if Kate recognized the voice. Unfortunately she hadn't.

"Like I said, Mr. Holmes and I believe that he may be targeting one of your clients. If you would allow me to look at your list, we might be able to figure out-"

"I'm sorry. Our clients need to be able to trust our discretion as much as our ability to keep them safe," Kate interrupted.

Joan was becoming increasingly frustrated. She used to be a surgeon, she understood confidentiality but someone's _life _was on the line

She continued, "As far as your theory of this conspiracy to bring Daren down-"

"You found the bugs didn't you," Joan stated, _finally_ confirming one of their theories.

"Let's say that we did." Of course, these types of people always talking in hypotheticals." "There's a lot of people who'd like to know what's going on inside these walls." Joan would be happy to never see these walls again. "And even if the man you're referring to is surveilling us, he couldn't possibly have set Daren up to kill the wrong man. Daren saw Wallace Rourke's face that night."

"Isn't it possible that he got it wrong?" The human brain isn't exactly a camera. Memories distort, people age and look different. "That after so many years of wanting to find the killer, he was ready to believe he had?"

"There's no way he would make a mistake like that. You have to understand, for Daren, his life is divided into two halves. Before Leah's murder and after."

Two halves, which meant to know the difference she must have known something about Daren before Leah's murder.

"Did you know Daren before she died?"

"I wish I had. I actually met Daren at a candlelight vigil the town was holding for Leah," a wistful smile appeared on Kate's face. Something wasn't adding up.

"That is a very complicated time to get involved."

"It was a complicated time to meet." Kate corrected. "We didn't get involved until a few months after."

Both women were silent. Kate was the first one to break. "Look, Daren found closure by killing Leah Sutter's murderer. But I'm also grateful that he finally found some peace."

Kate looked at the clock. "I'm sorry, but I have an important meeting with the shareholders. Can you see yourself out?"

Joan nodded and started to head back to the brownstone. Well, that was unproductive. She couldn't tell what was going on, but something else didn't seem right about the situation. Maybe Sherlock had more luck.

* * *

She headed back to the brownstone. It turned out Sherlock was no more successful in his interview than she was. Sherlock started adding files to the murder board, and now it was an almost incomprehensible assortment of papers. Joan could only follow them due to months of experience. As the head of a risk management firm Sutter accumulated a _long_ list of dangerous enemies. Not to mention he wrote a New York Times' Best Seller about his obsession with his sister's murder, so his vulnerability wasn't exactly a secret.

Sherlock let out a sigh and buried his head in his hands.

"Are you alright?" Joan asked

"Yeah I'm fine, just a bit stiff. Been sitting here too long," was the terse response.

Sherlock stood up suddenly and with a loud crash he toppled over the murder board.

"I'm just," he starts, then lets out a sigh. "Forgive me," he states, knowing that his behavior towards the situation is completely out of line. "The last few days have just, taken their toll." Sherlock started breathing heavily, in through the mouth and out through his nose. "To be so, so close to some answers which I've sought for so long. I cannot come up empty-handed."

Joan couldn't help but think this is what Moriarty truly wanted. Not the answers to Leah Sutter's murder (although that might be a secondary agenda, who knows with Moriarty), but Sherlock Holmes, wrecked beyond all capacity and destroying himself in the process.

"Why don't you get something to eat?" she asked, using the same voice she would to a wounded animal (she would always bring home stray cats but her mother would never let her keep them. For some reason she had an affinity for cats. She didn't know why). "I will clean up."

He left. Joan got started on picking up the papers that flew off the board after Sherlock's moment of rage. As she was scooping up documents, one caught her eye. It was a picture of Leah Sutter and Kate, arm in arm underneath a cherry blossom tree.

Joan made her way to the kitchen where she found Sherlock eating a bowl of cereal.

"I was just thinking how hard this case is for you," she began. "I know how badly Moriarty hurt you and I was just thinking I wish that I could fix it for you." Joan hates seeing people in pain and Sherlock is in so much pain but the wounds that have been inflicted on him are ones that she cannot sew up or stitch back together again. He's a good man (even if he sometimes forgets how to interact with people he _tries_) and doesn't deserve the pain he's been put through. She wishes there was something she could do, but there isn't.

He stopped eating. "I appreciate the sentiment, Watson, but I fear that your goal may be unobtainable." That was her fear too.

"What about Daren Sutter? He's a lot like you, except he got what he wanted. He's at peace now. But what if he was tricked into killing Wallace Rourke by someone who wanted to lift him up?" She placed the photo of Kate Sutter on the table, and let Sherlock jump to the right conclusions.

* * *

They called Captain Gregson and told him about the situation. The next morning they once again made their way to Sutter Risk Management (Joan was starting to _hate _that damn winding staircase).

They walked into Sutter's office. "If this is about Daren I don't feel comfortable answering questions without his attorney present."

"Actually Mrs. Sutter this is about you," Sherlock interjected. "We were hoping you might confirm exactly when you met your husband."

She stared at them, as if they had grown horns. "As I told Ms. Watson, it was in 1991, at a vigil for his sister, Leah."

"So that would be after her death?" Marcus wanted to know.

"Obviously."

"Being with Daren as long as you have I'd assume you know as much about her case as anyone. So surely you know that partial fingerprints were found on her front door that night. They were never identified, but police thought there was a chance they belonged to the killer," Joan explained.

"But they didn't, did they? They belonged to you. Because you were the one who came through the door that night not your husband." A panicked look appeared on her face.

"You handled Ms. Watson's phone yesterday. We were able to pull your prints and compare them to the ones from Leah's house. They matched," Marcus states.

"That means you lied to me. You did know Daren before Leah died. Also, we've called some of Leah's old neighbors. They said that you spent a lot of time there," Joan said, acting out a suspicion.

Kate threw down a bundle of papers on her desk. "Ok, so I was friends with Leah before she died. So what?"

"So, now we know why he was so certain he killed the right man all those months ago. Because you told him it was the right man," Sherlock added.

"He never saw the killer's face, you did. But you couldn't admit that without revealing why you were there so late at night. You weren't just friends, were you?" Joan asked, knowing the answer. "There's a photo of you and Leah, and in it you have your soulmate marks along your left wrist. I can tell by your tan line you almost always wear a watch now, although yesterday you took it off after a pen exploded on it. Your wrist was bare."

"And so Daren became the official witness, relaying all the details you saw as if he were the one who came in the door that night. Problem solved. Till the police couldn't find the man you described to Daren.," Marcus finished.

Joan picked up where he left off. "That was hard on Darren. And you."

This time was Sherlock's turn. "Twenty two years later you came across a man who you thought could pass for an older version of the man in this sketch. And that was Wallace Rourke." Sherlock took out the sketch from his pocket. "And the only way you could give your husband the peace he'd never had was to insist that Wallace Rourke was the man that you saw that night."

"He was the man I saw that night." Kate insisted. "Rourke killed Leah."

"As a matter of fact, he didn't," Captain Gregson corrected. "We were just able to confirm a little while ago he wasn't even in the country at the time of the murder. You saw someone else that night."

Kate's eyes widened, genuinely shocked that they were not the same person.

Gregson continued, "Now listen. Your husband is gonna find out about this sooner or later. Why don't you do yourself a favor and tell us the whole story?" he asked, voice cajoling.

"I loved Leah." Kate admits, not seeing the point of hiding the truth when they so clearly already had the answers. "She was like light, a breath of fresh air in a world that was so strictly regimented by what my parents planned for me. Neither of our families would have been fans of the relationship so we kept it a secret. A platonic soulmate with the same gender would have been one thing but a romantic one?" Kate shook her head. " So yes, I had a boyfriend. The only person we told from our families was her brother. And once Leah died," her voice cracked, "he was the only one who understood anything of what I was going through, he loved her so much. And he was so _similar_ to her, although he had his own traits so it wasn't as if I was always reminded of her, but some of the things I loved about Leah made me love my husband too. He was the only one who could make the pain stop." Her voice trembled. "Doing what we did here, he started to get better after her death. So did I. But then, when we came up on the 20th anniversary of Leah's death," her eyes started blinking rapidly, trying to blink away the tears, "he started to slip away again. We tried everything. All kinds of therapy, antidepressants, none of it helped him. I've done the same since Leah's murder and while they were somewhat effective, nothing made me as happy as Daren did." She took a deep breath. "A few months ago, I came home and found him with a gun." She looked away. "He'd already written me a note saying goodbye. I talked him down, but I knew it was just a matter of time before he tried again. I already lost Leah, I couldn't lose him too. I just wanted him to be happy and for him to be alive."

They were all watching her. "I _had _to do something!" She stated, desperation evident in her voice.

Joan interrupted. "He looked enough like the sketch to fool Daren. That combined with your insistence that it was the same man was all it took. After all, you were her soulmate. He thought you wanted her killer brought to justice just as much as he did.

"This was the only way to save Daren," Kate pleaded them to understand.

"No, that's what 72-hour psych holds are for," interrupted Detective Bell. "Rourke was an innocent man."

Kate was unapologetic. "I didn't relish Rourke's death, but between him and Daren it wasn't a hard choice."

"Neither is this," Gregson responded. "You're under arrest."

* * *

The police took Kate Sutter away in handcuffs. "So now that we have the whole truth why do I feel so lousy?" Joan asked.

"That's Moriarty's intention." She found herself agreeing. "I think this is supposed to be a stupid lesson. Show me a man who craves vengeance and can destroy the lives of others," Sherlock declared.

"You think this is his way of getting you to back off?" she wondered, almost hoping the answer would be yes but knew that if anything, this would grab Sherlock's attention even _more_.

Instead of answering, he announced "I think I'm gonna go visit Daren Sutter again. I feel an obligation to break the news of his wife's deceit of him personally. I'll meet you back at the brownstone." Sherlock walked away without another word, and Joan let him.

Joan knew that Sherlock would soon receive another call from Moriarty since that was what had happened previously. Moriarty would probably be even more expedient this time since they had fully completed his task this time around. The news would be covering every inch of the case, so it wouldn't be long. A few days ago she asked Gregson to clone the phone that Moriarty had been using (although she didn't tell him whose phone she was cloning.). He did so without any questions, still feeling remorseful for his previous actions and trying to get back on her good side. After Sherlock promised to keep her safe, Joan suspected that he would try to keep her out of whatever was to come. Joan already made her choice to stay, so she took precautions to make sure she wouldn't be kept out of the loop.

Her phone went off. A text was sent containing an address and a message. Choose wisely. She didn't know what that was about but that must be referring to a conversation Sherlock and Moriarty must have had. She called Sherlock to check what was happening and see if he would tell her the truth about the phone call.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered.

"Just checking in. How did Daren take the news?" she questioned.

"As well as can be expected," was the reply on the other end.

"Have you heard anything from Moriarty yet?"

"No afraid not. I'm returning home and I'll be there shortly," he stated, sounding very odd.

Joan heard the sound of a car door opening and then he hung up. She knew he was lying to her, probably in a misguided way of trying to keep his promise. She relayed the correct instructions to the cab driver and was able to arrive a few minutes before Sherlock himself did.

She saw him arrive. He was standing in front of the gates of a fairly large house when she strolled up beside him and asked, "What do you think is inside?"

Startled, Sherlock was about to open his mouth to ask a question but before he could she responded "In this day and age, the simplest way to track someone is via their cell phone." She smirked, enjoying that sometimes she can surprise even him.

"You cloned the phone Moriarty was using to contact us," Sherlock stated.

"I did," she confirmed. "Right after you said you would never let Moriarty hurt me. I thought you'd try and pull something like this." She took a step closer. "You asked me to be your partner."

"You are my partner," he replied quickly.

"You lied to me about hearing from Moriarty so you could come here on your own."

"Watson," he started, and then looked away. "Most puzzles I see from the outside and it give me a certain clarity. I am right in the _center _of this one. It has blurred my vision, to say the least. I lied to protect you."

"I didn't ask you to protect me," she countered. She just wanted him to think before he acted and realize that the game he was playing was just as dangerous for him. "And I did not sign on to work with you to be put on the sidelines every time you or Gregson or anyone decides it's too dangerous. This is my life. I just wanted you to be more careful with yours."

"You want the danger," he said confusedly.

He still didn't get it. "I wanna know I'm not kidding myself by staying with you!"

He straightened. "The reasons I'm here are personal."

They'd undergone so much together. Why couldn't he get it? "I could say the same thing. I have been with you every step of the way these past couple of weeks." She takes a step closer, her voice increasing in volume. "We have worked so hard on this case. Whatever answers he's got in there for you, I deserve them too."

(Her mother always said she was far too curious for her own good. Maybe she's right, but at least she'll have answers.)

Sherlock just stared at her, and then wordlessly made his way towards the gate. He undid the lock and slipped through. Joan followed him up the driveway. They reached the door, a key already waiting for them in the lock. If there was a time to turn back it was now. Sherlock looked at her, and then reached out for the key.

They made their way into the house; classical music was playing and easily heard throughout the every room. They headed towards what looks like an art room, paintings and different colors of paint surrounding them at every step. They made their way across the room, and Joan started recognizing various exhibits from her many afternoons at the Met. Before they could make their way any closer Sherlock started to collapse, gasping and whimpering as if he was injured. Joan lunged for him, trying to keep him from falling. "What is it? Sherlock?" she asked, voice filled with concern and wondering what was wrong.

Sherlock whispered and cried out something incomprehensible, his voice too hoarse for Joan to understand what he was trying to convey. He pointed. Joan was so preoccupied with Sherlock's well-being that for a second she didn't realize anyone else was in the room. Joan turned her head towards the room's other occupant. Joan stilled. Her eyes widened and her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. Joan found herself staring at a woman, with skin the color of cream, steely blue eyes and hair like spun gold. Both dried and fresh paint lined her skin, making her blend in with the rest of her artwork and giving her an almost ethereal quality. She had a palette in one hand and was wearing a paint spattered. Sherlock cried out once more. This time she understood. Irene.

Joan's face was perfectly smooth, unreadable. She didn't know why but inside she felt like a piece of her heart fly away towards the center of the room.

* * *

A/N: End scene!

Oh poor poor Joan, we all get a little dazed by Natalie Dormer *cackles evilly.* Now it's going to start to change a whole lot more (although some things will stay the same, but how they get to some key points will be different.).  
Plot twist! Leah was Kate's soulmate. Just some changes that the soulmarks wrought on their world.

P.S. This chapter length is the exception, not the rule. I hope.  
Also, if you find any typos (I suspect there are a few, I really just wanted to put this chapter up) let me know! Please comment, as that is how I know how to improve!


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